Chapter 14: Oh pull me again, and faster this time Uncle Peter

First time in my life I ever heard about a boat leaving early. I am hussled out of my room by the hotel staff at Mushroom Beach Bungalows, who shout “The boat is leaving, leaving hurry hurry.” It’s 6:30am, the boat is only supposed to leave at 7:00. Travelling in the developing world you get used to things leaving late, but every so often the tropics throws something new at you, like the boat leaving early. Thus, despite the fact that I’m unshowered, unfed, uncoffeed, I’m running down the beach, which has become all soft and mushy with the recent high tide, with a big duffle bag and a packsack slung over my shoulder. It’s very difficult and by the time I reach the boat I have worked up a healthy lather of sweat. I feel REAL nice. And all that is left is a seat between two old ladies who converse with each other through my head; they appear to believe it’s hollow, and from the ringing noise in it, I’m inclined to agree. People are spitting on the floor right by my feet. I think about parasites. (If you haven’t guessed yet, I am slightly phobic about parasites). Anyway, the reason for my frantic departure is that I have to get down to Nusa Dua, also called the Golden Enclave, which is basically where all of the luxury resorts are to see my old university friends Francis and Jackie and their ethereally beautiful two kids. My boyfriend and I were closest friends with Jackie and Francis in university, but after we graduated from university we all went our separate ways: they to Hong Kong and my by-then-ex-boyfriend and I to London (although not together: I went first, he followed me, but that’s another long story…). We’ve seen each other as often as possible over the years, but the last time now was in 1997. I am astounded. They are totally unchanged, and I’m convinced that they’ve been sipping from some Asian fountain of youth. I look closely for signs of plastic surgery but can see none.

Club Med is rather gruesome, though to be fair, Jackie did warn me beforehand that they play Vamos a la Playa at the poolside each afternoon, with guests lining up right on the pool’s edge to be led through a new – and utterly inane – dance. The predominantly French, Japanese, and Korean guests love this, and I speculate whether this is because their societies are so conformist that they can only let loose in some idiotic activity like this. I also saw during my tenure there (fortunately when my stomach was empty) a tall, gangly and yet also fat, hairy man in his mid-40s wearing a white singlet and a blue sarong, and it’s not working well for him. But the piece de resistance is the fact that he has had his hair plaited into tiny cornrows and each plait tipped with a blue and white beads. You think Venus Williams looks stupid? You have no idea.

Still, Club Med is wonderful, I suppose if you have kids since you can park them in Kids’ Club, which is essentially a roaming full day babysitting service of outdoor activities like gymnastics, tennis, swimming, and archery. This last one sounded dangerous to me, but I didn’t hear of any toddler fatalities while I was there. But it’s wonderful to see Jackie and Francis again, and they introduce me to some very, very nice friends of theirs from Hong Kong. Also, I fall totally in love with Jackie and Francis’ kids from the word go. Dominic, 7, is a quiet intelligent little elf. He reminds me of myself at his age: skinny as a refugee, huge dark eyes glued to a book, fascinated by natural history. When he’s not reading he quietly observes the whole world. He tells his parents, “When I grow up I want to study sharks, if I am not too afraid”. I feel a special affinity for this funny little boy. Danielle, 5, is a totally engaging, funny, little performer. We go to the Hyatt one night because she wants to eat prawns and watch the Balinese dance. Jackie, Francis, Dominic and I are bored by the dance, but Danielle cannot tear her eyes away. The night is lovely and hot and we eat lobster and drink fresh squeezed lime and soda. The kids speak both Mandarin and English, and thus engender in me feelings of intellectual and cultural inadequacy, which are exacerbated when I discover that the kids of Jackie and Francis’ friends are completely trilingual in English, French and Mandarin thanks to their French father, Taiwanese mother, and English school.

All the kids are great. One shouts in awe at me, “You’ve got strong muscles!” and comes to tell me solemnly that he thinks I’m crazy after he sees my skydiving photos. For the duration of my stay I’m nominated as Uncle Peter. This role has special responsibilities, which I take very, very seriously. First: joining the kids in the search for crabs on the beach, and having to find the largest one plus other good animals. Second, being a locomotive engine in the swimming pool and pulling all the kids around on their floating mattresses (“Faster, Faster! Uncle Peter, Faster!”). Third, receiving at my door advance delegations from Dominic and Danielle whenever it’s time to go anywhere. They look up at me with luminous round eyes, “Come on Uncle Peter, it’s time to go.” Fourth, piggybacking kids down the lengths and breadths of Club Med’s corridors and hallways, jumping and whinnying like a rabid mule. It’s great fun.

I learn why everyone seems to be named Wayan or Made or Nyoman or Ketut. Basically the bottom two lower castes of the Balinese, comprising merchants and farmers and so nearly everyone except the Brahmin and the once-upon-a-time royal family, have a very simple nomenclature for their children. Whether male of female, the first child is called Wayan, the second Made, the third Nyomen, and the fourth Ketut. What happens if there is a fifth child, or a sixth? Well, the names are just used over again. Very occassionally you hear names like Putu and a few others, but these are rare exceptions to the general naming rule. I dunno, kinda takes your individuality away doesn’t it?

One day we go water skiing. Francis and I manage, rather inelegantly I must report, to get up on one ski but we barely manage to hang on behind the boat for two small circles of the bay, and collapse winded, with throbbing arms and sore knee joints into the water. Francis and I assure Jackie that once upon a time (a fabled era known as the 20s) we could water ski for hours at a time. To console ourselves, we go for lunch at one of the exclusive Aman hotels. It’s high on a hill and stunning. I realize that I love stylish expensive hotels, and with the Aman costing $500 plus per night I wonder – yet again - if it was altogether wise to quit the profitable world of investment banking for the penurious world of literary creation. So far, I’ve written one and a half short stories, and a couple of poems. I console myself about my Aman experience (which was to console myself about my water skiing experience) by hanging out at the Club Med spa – a quiet refuge from Vamos a la Playa by the poolside - where I have a lavender body wash, a Balinese coffee body scrub, a rejuvenating carrot moisturizer treatment, and a Banyan massage. Jackie and Francis and I hang out and talk of this and that and realize that we’ve been friends for nearly 20 years. That sends me running back to the spa for an avocado moisturizing facial. It doesn’t work.